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George woke her up with his senseless mutterings, like almost every night for the past nine days -- yes, she'd been keeping track. She lay on her side, staring at the man's back, trying to decipher actual words, trying to force the grogginess away. She always woke up disoriented, something she never quite understood. No one had explained vampirism to her; no one had taken her hand and taught her how to survive. Fleur didn't know what was normal and what was abnormal, so she worked with what she had, her own experiences. Evenings spent at the shooting range, evenings spent training herself with a blade, and she still didn't feel quite right about fighting. Monsters were easy to kill. Some of her own kind? That struck her as wrong. And yet she put the feral ones down, time and time again. Dorothy tried to rationalize with her, but Dorothy wasn't a vampire, Dorothy was only ten, and those two things made any points moot. Fleur closed her eyes and prepared to catch another hour of sleep, but a harsh breeze hit her unlatched window and the window crashed open, swinging along with the breeze. George ceased his muttering and Dorothy hurried into the room from the living room, abandoning the evening news.

"Damn window. I told you to lock it. Nobody listens to George. Nobody believes George. What are you looking at you crotch gremlin?" George hissed the words at Dorothy and the girl placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Feh. Stupid kid."

"I'm not a crotch goblin, you, you boomer!" Dorothy grinned in triumph when the man growled at her like a dog. "I'm so scared of you! Boo hoo. Save me from the mean old man!" Dorothy cackled at him and he barreled toward her, fingers flexing in his bindings, just begging to strangle her. Dorothy smiled at him, like a smug little girl would, and he started muttering obscenities. If only his hands weren't bound behind his back, if only his feet weren't weighed down by cement. The gangsters had done a number on the snitch.

Fleur focused on the way her curtains swayed in the breeze, deep red colored by the moonlight. The wind seemed to whisper to her. She'd wanted to ask where Dorothy had learned to insult the elderly with the word boomer, but the thought was shoved aside in favor of swinging her legs over the side of her bed and walking over to the open window. She lived on the fifth floor, so she looked down at the street below. Her apartment building was near the quarantine zone, and she heard soldiers laughing amongst themselves as they stood at the intersection. Dorothy stood beside Fleur and looked down at the soldiers. One of the men had a lit cigarette, the smell of it causing Fleur to rethink standing at the window. After she closed and locked the window, she straightened the curtains, then she went to gather clothes so she could shower and change out of her dog pajamas.

George was a massive pervert, so she left Dorothy in charge of the old man. She heard them arguing all throughout her shower, and even while she dressed. That night, she chose to stitch her wound, which was much harder without a mirror, but she handled the job just as well. Dressed in a long-sleeved black sweater and a grey wool dress, she went to sort through her masks for something to match. She managed to find a black cloth mask decorated with two white flowers on the right side. From over her shoulder, George huffed that she looked hideous.

"You look even worse. You should have stayed at the bottom of the river," Dorothy snapped, exchanging a blinding smile with Fleur. Fleur reached out to pat the girl's head, but her hand went right through. "What are we doing tonight?"

"Every night it's 'what are we doing tonight?' The same thing we do every other damn night, brat," George answered.

"I'm going to feed the ducks," Fleur announced, already going to fill a small paper bag with some pieces of bread. She only shopped for bread, nothing else, because human food made her vomit, not immediately, but soon after. "Tonight is going to be a good night."

"How can you tell?" Dorothy watched her grab a red umbrella with black polka dots and quickly followed her from the apartment, George choosing to stay behind. The girl went right through the wall and into the elevator. Fleur hummed to herself.

"Did you see the ring around the moon? It's going to rain soon. I like rainy days," Fleur said, turning to smile at the girl. Dorothy gave her an odd look. "I feel," Fleur began, cut off by Dorothy's groan.

"Please don't tell me it's another one of your predictions. Being right twice out of two years of you trying doesn't mean it works, y'know. My prediction is you'll fall asleep on the park bench again."

"Be quiet. Your head is oozing again."

The walk to the park was filled with Dorothy recounting everything that had happened on the news. Apparently, a soldier had proposed to his wife. His friends had lured her into a restaurant and he was waiting for her at a table, the man down on one knee, ring box in hand. Fleur found that boring. She would have wanted a few severed heads, since she was running low on them, and some used condoms. They used to be plentiful, but the remaining members of the city were more concerned with staying alive than preventing themselves from multiplying. By the time they reached their usual bench in Thornside Park, Dorothy had stopped talking and settled down to watch Fleur drop bread for the unusually quiet ducks.

The door of his old ‘82 Ram had a distinctive scream as he pushed it shut, a sort of punctuation to the announcement of his arrival that the old, big block engine usually bellowed to anyone within hearing distance. That same, familiar screech of metal against metal as the rusty old door swung on a worn out hinge was usually what sent his little feathered friends running across the pond to meet him. It was a sharp contrast to his usual quiet demeanor, most things about Fox being understated and subtle, letting him slip in and out of someone’s attention usually at will, and that usually worked in his favor. Going about his business unseen was all a part of how he made his living, and if he couldn’t manage to slip under the radar of your average joe, there was little hope he could stalk about the woods without alerting quarry to his whereabouts.

He was an average sort of guy, with an average way of dress, driving an average truck to your average local park, with an average loaf of bread that he had used for his average sandwiches. He was nothing spectacular at first glance, just another everyday visitor to the duck pond, a young man in tattered old jeans and a white t-shirt with his ratty old plaid hunting vest and old black trapper’s hat. It was all so commonplace that he was easy to overlook. To passersby, he was barely more than scenery, the only odd thing out being the time of his visit. This late at night, most of the city was still sleeping, or would be headed that way soon, with dawn only a small handful of hours away. However, he had a long day of hunting ahead of him, and if he wanted to find a decent spot before the local critters started stirring, then he needed to get himself situated. With a heavy sigh, he reached into the back of his truck for his hunting rifle and slung it over his shoulder, still tucked into its travel bag, and took the duffel bag from the bed of the truck to carry in his other hand as he turned to make his way down to the pond.

The big bag had a strap looped over his left shoulder, the rifle resting across his back looped over his right, and the bag of bread clutched in his right hand the final piece of his little ensemble. He hadn’t even made it down to the bank before he was greeted by a small gathering of the more astute critters, waddling about his feet as he made his way down. He smiled at the fattest of them, a heavy mallard that had a little row of young in tow, following in a little line as they followed him with the bread, impatiently quacking for their treat. “Gretta, you and the clan will get yours, but you have to wait.”

The duck threw back its emerald crested head and gave a loud sound of complaint, flicking its wings angrily but doing no more, following behind him and leading the little train of ducklings along. He let the other hand lift to scratch as his unshaven face, shaking his head with a sigh as he looked over the pond, watching the growing number of ripples made obvious by the glinting white reflection of the moon, the wake left behind by the critters as they approached the source of food more obvious than the birds themselves, the disturbance they caused on the otherwise glassy-still water creating an almost strobe-like effect as they swarmed the shore of the pond, like an invading force storming a beach.

It wasn’t long before a chorus of quacking began to rise and the excitement of the ducks that had noticed him began to wake those that had drifted into sleep, the quickly growing little crowd of animals moving to wait for him at the spot where he would stop with enough frequency that they knew when they saw him that this was the best spot to be if they hoped for the best share of the bread. He chuckled as the one he’d named Gretta moved to his front as he stopped and set down his bag, the rotund duck stepping up onto his boot and bashing his knee with her bill before giving another loud sound of complaint.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, here,” he muttered as he tore a hunk from a slice of bread and dropped it to the duck that had taken up shop on his foot. As soon as the first piece was claimed by what had become the clear leader of the flock of birds that had taken up residence in the park, the rest of her extended group made their way in, waiting their turn to snatch up a bit of bread as it was tossed to them. The commotion was attracting the attention of more birds from further away, as it often did, and few by few, more of them turned from what they were doing, be it sleeping or searching for bits of food for themselves, and began to slowly converge on the spot where free food was being tossed about, clearly fascinated by the man-creature with enough bounty to share with the entire park.

As the creatures began to close in, he continued to tear into slices of bread and swept his arm to toss little hunks of the treat to them in increasingly wider arcs, before those that had gathered at that point were all busy biting at the bits around them, and he stood with an amused grin to watch as the others made their way to him. If only hunting were that easy, he’d have been a wealthy man a long time ago, he mused with a lopsided smile to himself.

One by one, her little ducks left her, waddling off toward the pond, where they stepped into the water and swam away. Fleur looked into her paper bag at the pieces of bread, then at the retreating ducks. Dorothy went toward the water and followed the animals as they disappeared into the night. One duck remained with Fleur, a small one she'd known since it first emerged, and it quacked at her, demanding more bread. She bent down and extended a piece and the duck gobbled it up, wiggling around as if to show that he appreciated the food. But the others were gone, and they'd never abandoned her that way. She'd been feeding the ducks for years. They knew her. They knew her paper bag. Fleur moved the black mask from over her nose and mouth, then leaned in to sniff the paper bag, noting that the bread seemed perfectly fine. It was fresh, not stale, not moldy. Fleur moved her mask back into place and sighed.

"Maybe they're sleepy."

"They've never done this before. They're always hungry. Maybe they sense something? Animals can be highly intelligent."

"They're ducks, Flower, not psychics.

Fleur fed the duck one more piece of bread, then the little thing turned and headed toward the pond, easily following in the footsteps of the others. Dorothy took one look at Fleur, then proceeded to follow the duck. Fleur closed her paper bag, folding the top down, then she joined Dorothy in tailing the duck. She took one quick glance around, then started walking across the pond. It was dark, and she knew she could easily step into the water, if she spotted any humans. She would look strange, but she always looked strange. She heard a vehicle door open, the sound of metal on metal causing Dorothy to whine about her ears. Fleur watched a man emerge from the truck, watched the way the ducks waddled to meet him, all quacks and hurried steps. Fleur didn't like him. She pouted beneath her mask, her right hand squeezing the paper bag so tightly that the paper crinkled. Fleur turned to go, seeing the man intended to stay, but the most peculiar thing occurred. The ducks gathering around him were there for food, and he intended to feed them.

Fleur removed her black ballet flats, slipping her fingers into the backs to carry them in her left hand, then she sunk into the water, so she appeared like a regular human simply walking through the pond. She made a splash, as she did with every step, then she stepped onto the grass, getting a better look at the ducks. Some of them turned toward her, as if sizing her up, but their attention quickly shifted back to the man. He looked like he lived in the woods, and she knew about cabins available, but he looked worse for wear, almost as if he actually camped out there, being one with the wilderness. But she had no room to judge him. She liked how she dressed, but she knew people found it odd; she knew they often thought she was poor or homeless or crazy. Dorothy ran ahead to try and scare the ducks, shouting and laughing as she circled around the man, but none of them noticed.

"You look homeless." She wasted no time blurting out the first thing that came to mind. She was honest, blunt, and sometimes people didn't appreciate it, at least that's what she'd assumed with the responses she received. Fleur took several steps away from the lake, bare feet bending blades of grass that easily slipped between her toes. "Do you normally feed my ducks?" Her ducks, as if she truly owned the wild animals.

"This is a public park, silly. He's probably one of those people. You know! Like at zoos. They have pellets you can feed the ducks! I went to one a few times. My mom took me. We took a paddle boat ride across the lake!"

Fleur turned her gaze onto Dorothy and the girl's mouth snapped shut. Fleur couldn't speak to her with the man standing there, knowing very well that talking to thin air wasn't in her best interests.

The woman’s voice interrupting the intermittent sounds of the ducks hardly startled him, having heard her splashing through the water from across the pond as she’d approached, as well as the quiet ruffle of grass beneath her feet as she had took up her place among the loose gathering of fowl. Her statement, though, was one that gave him a little surprise at its bluntness, though it was hardly a shock. She wasn’t wrong, and it was hardly the first time he had heard it, though it was the first time it had come unsolicited from a complete stranger before. Normally people were quiet, or too busy to notice him at all until he collected their attention intentionally. He looked up from the duck that had claimed his boot, and let his gaze find the strange woman that had joined the gathering of his mighty horde of friends, and offered her an unoffending, nonchalant smile. “I won’t be here long, promise I’m not sleeping on a bench or anything.”

He gave a sort of innocent wave of his hand, to dismiss the perceived concern that a vagabond might be trying to claim a spot in the park for the night, that he might be trying to find a bench to sleep on or something of the sort. He was, after all, just passing through, and the last thing he needed was for the cops to show up and follow him around to make sure he wasn’t trying to find someplace unsavory to pitch a cardboard tent and stake a claim for the night. He had better things to do with his time. He reached into the bag of bread that he had brought with him and made another offering to Gretta, who greedily took a whole slice of bread with her bill before he could tear a piece off, and rushed to waddle behind him, parking just at his ankle, like he couldn’t simply turn around and see that she had taken the entire slice for herself. She ate with a reckless abandon, little sounds leaving the large duck as she devoured the treat.

He sighed at the creature’s behaviour, sure that if he didn’t show up every night to feed her, she would likely starve for the lack of ability to find food for herself. He had spoiled the thing. Though now, it appeared, with the strange woman’s question, that perhaps she wasn’t so lost without him as he imagined. It explained, in fact, the why of her growing so large while he only fed her what he thought a perfectly normal amount. He nodded in response and gave another disarming grin. “I come through every morning, on my way out of town. I can see now that some of these fine feathered fellows are getting quite well fed,” he said with a warm chuckle and a little wave of his fingers to the mammoth duck at his ankle. As if she needed singling out.

At his gesture, the creature made a loud sound of complaint, though she didn’t move from her parking spot at the heel of his boot, and instead opted to continue working at the slice she had stolen until it was all gone. He shook his head and turned back to the stranger and tied off the bag of bread. “I am a little early this morning, though, so I do apologize if I’ve interrupted your time with the feathered folks. I just have a bit of work to do this morning before I can get about the normal day.” He gave a sort of nervous laugh and shrugged a shoulder as he moved to pick up his bags from the ground, which very clearly distressed many of the creatures, as they had not been fed to excess just yet, and were clearly wanting for more. He sighed, and abandoned the items again to open the bag of bread once more, and began to tear more hunks free and toss them to the little crowd around them, until they settled down, back into their quiet feeding.

He looked back to the woman, as oddly dressed as she so plainly pointed out that he was, and gave a little wave of his bread. “If you want, I could go ahead and leave, and let you finish the rest of the bread. There’s not much, but they clearly appreciate it.” He chuckled again and held the bag out for her to take. “The name’s Fox, by the way. Since it seems like we have a common goal in seeing these guys fed, I figure I can at least give you that much, eh?” He offered another of those normal, disarming smiles as he gave the bag a little shake, inviting her more insistently to take it from him, and welcoming her to share as well, if she chose, her name with him in return.